Right
by Doug Kelly
Summary: After surviving an incident involving an explosive vest and a conveniently timed phone call, all is well in 221b Baker Street. Until an old acquaintance from John's past arrives, bringing with her a very convincing argument to take her case… NOT Johnlock. Wizard!John, Muggle!Sherlock. Set between S1&2.


**A/N:**

 **1\. Using on an iPad is my new idea of Hell.**

 **2\. Unbeta'ed. In case you're interested… feel free to drop me a PM.**

 **3\. Reviews would be very much appreciated. The good, the bad, the ugly…**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own nothing. Which really means that I don't own anything. Weird, right? Except for the iPad mentioned above. The individual unit, that is, not the concept.**

* * *

John Hamish Watson, currently seated at the breakfast table of the highest flat in 221b Baker Street, was in high spirits. The hit numbers for his blog were at an all-time high (which was unsurprising, really, considering the very public nature of the 'Great Game' case) and Sherlock was reasonably quiet for the moment. No sharp violin noises, just a dull thud every five or ten minutes from the broad vicinity of his bedroom. He did not want to know what his flatmate had gotten up to this time, as most often it had something to do with skulls or other body parts. And while he had encountered his fair share of severed limbs during his military career, he had no further need to see them in his home. _Yes_ , he thought while sipping his tea, _this is home now._

With work trickling in at a reasonable pace these last few weeks, he had actually been able to fill out his rather sparse room with a new carpet and a matress that did not reek of the previous occupant of the bed. He had also treated himself to some new clothes because, as he had explained to Sherlock when he had inquired about his extensive shopping spree, who would trust a private detective that looked like he had only recently escaped homelessness? After which Sherlock had pointed out that he was the private detective, or rather "consulting detective, of course," as he had corrected both himself and John, and that no one would bother to look at John twice. That had hurt the former army doctor quite a bit, and just out of spite he had gone and bought himself a suit jacket that very day.

In fact, he was wearing that exact suit jacket at the moment, as he was about to face a possible client alone for the first time. Sherlock had told him that he was not to be interrupted in his experiment of unknown kind and purpose, as "at least a dozen lives, possibly more" were apparently riding on the outcome. His brilliant, but socially unreliable flatmate and partner had even made him a list of appropriate questions and general hints, and the first bullet point of the latter category was written in bold and capitals: **DO NOT ASK STUPID QUESTIONS** , it read. John could not help but roll his eyes while cutting a banana into mouth-friendly pieces. He was not endowed with the brilliance of the mind that Sherlock or, as much as his flatmate loathed the fact, his brother possessed, but he fancied himself a reasonably clever man – no idiot would ever make it to the rank of Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Footsteps on the stairs hailed the imminent arrival of his would-be client. She had been exceptionally closed off about the nature of her problem, not even trusting to let anything slip via telephone, out of fear of being overheard. _The thing is, she probably has a point_ , John thought grimly as he refreshed his memory of the contents of their conversation. _There would be no telling as to what Anderson or Donovan would do to get a chance at listening in on everything going on around here._ One other thing had struck John as odd during the phone call with his mystery caller. He had not thought much of it at the time, crediting it to excitement or a wonky accent. But now that he thought about it again, he was quite sure that he had never heard that particular variant of the word before. The woman on the other side of the landline connection had inquired on whether she should give another „shout via the telephone" before getting underway to Baker Street. He had declined, joking that he and Sherlock would get enough of an advance warning via the stairs. And while his feeble attempt at humour had fallen flat, that was not what concerned him right now. The woman had pronounced 'telephone' as 'tellyfon' as if not quite sure how to pronounce the word.

He was mentally kicking himself now for not thinking of this little detail before. The rest of their conversation had not hinted at any kind of unfamiliarity with the intricacies of the English language, so in retrospect, 'accent' or 'foreigner' were out. And John knew of only one group of people that could not know hiw to pronounce the word 'telephone,' because it simply did not exist in their culture. But this was impossible…

John's eyes involuntarily wandered to the door behind which lay his bedroom. He thought of the hidden compartment in his nightstand, accessible only if one knew in which order to touch the false floor of the bottom drawer. In that hidden compartment, the assorted undesired fallout of seven years of his life lay buried under socks and underwear, never forgotten but rarely, very rarely consciously thought about. Among those things was the weapon of choice for the encounter he now stripongly suspected was coming, and he was about to dart to his bedroom when he realized he would never make it in time. When he wanted to be, John could be an exceptionally fast thinker, and thus connecting the dots had taken him only the slightly better part of ten seconds. Still, if the noise from outside the entrance door was anything to go buy, he had at best that much time again before his guest would venture in through the unlocked door. _Not that they need the door to be unlocked,_ John thought. He could feign blissful ignorance. After all, he had been out of contact with that particular part of his life for almost fifteen years, and he knew he looked nothing like he did back then. His hair was much shorter, and age as well as the stress of being an army doctor had started to catch up with him. He ended his deliberations when he heard the door in the corridor swing open, and finally sat down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. His outward demeanor was calm, but the white of his knuckles as they pressed into the soft plush betrayed him, as did the rigid line that was now his mouth. He was, asca matter of fact, ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

When his visitor came through the door, John registered surprise that his mouth managed to fall open on its own accord, despite his best efforts to the contrary. In the middle of his living room stood the long-time bane of his existence, clad in an expensive looking green dress, accentuated by matching earrings and a necklace that looked like it cost more than John's army pension for the next ten years combined.

"Hello, John," she said, sounding more insecure than in all the years he had known her. "For what it's worth, I am truly sorry." Looking at him briefly and apparently treating the lack of reaction on his part as permission to procede, she continued, albeit with a shaky voice and equally shaky, silver silk-gloved hands..

"As you probably have guessed by now, I need your help. My fiancé has disappeared, and no one from my side can find him. You are my only hope. And I fear that you are Harry's only hope, too."

As John struggled to register the bizarre revelations of the last minute, Daphne Greengrass heard a muffled thud behind her.


End file.
